IN the month of December, in the neighbourhood of Paris, two men, one
young, the other rather advanced in years, were descending the village
street, which was made uneven and almost impassable by stones and
puddles.
Opposite to them, and ascending this same street, a labourer, fastened
to a sort of dray laden with a cask, was slowly advancing, and beside
him a little girl, of about eight years old, who was holding the end of
the barrow. Suddenly the wheel went over an enormous stone, which lay
in the middle of the street, and the car leaned towards the side of the
child.
“The man must be intoxicated,” cried the young man, stepping forward to
prevent the overturn of the dray. When he reached the spot, he perceived
that the man was blind.
“Blind!” said he, turning towards his old friend. But the latter, making
him a sign to be silent, placed his hand, without speaking, on that of
the labourer, while the little girl smiled. The blind man immediately
raised his head, his sightless eyes were turned towards the two
gentlemen, his face shone with an intelligent and natural pleasure, and,
pressing closely the hand which held his own, he said, with an accent of
tenderness,
“Mr. Desgranges!”
“How!” said the young man, moved and surprised; “he knew you by the
touch of your hand.”
“I do not need even that,” said the blind man; “when he passes me in the
street, I say to myself, 'That is his step.'” And, seizing the hand
of Mr. Desgranges, he kissed it with ardour. “It was indeed you, Mr.
Desgranges, who prevented my falling--always you.”
“Why,” said the young man, “do you expose yourself to such accidents, by
dragging this cask?”
“One must attend to his business, sir,” replied he, gayly.
“Your business?”
“Undoubtedly,” added Mr. Desgranges. “James is our water-carrier. But I
shall scold him for going out without his wife to guide him.”
“My wife was gone away. I took the little girl. One must be a little
energetic, must he not? And, you see, I have done very well since I last
saw you, my dear Mr. Desgranges; and you have assisted me.”
“Come, James, now finish serving your customers, and then you can call
and see me. I am going home.”
“Thank you, sir. Good-by, sir; good-by, sir.”
And he started again, dragging his cask, while the child turned towards
the gentlemen her rosy and smiling face.
“Blind, and a water-carrier!” repeated the young man, as they walked
along.
“Ah! our James astonishes you, my young friend. Yes, it is one of those
miracles like that of a paralytic who walks. Should you like to know his
story?”
“Tell it to me.”
“I will do so. It does not abound in facts or dramatic incidents, but
it will interest you, I think, for it is the history of a soul, and of
a good soul it is--a man struggling against the night. You will see the
unfortunate man going step by step out of a bottomless abyss to begin
his life again--to create his soul anew. You will see how a blind man,
with a noble heart for a stay, makes his way even in this world.”
While they were conversing, they reached the house of Mr. Desgranges,
who began in this manner:--
“One morning, three years since, I was walking on a large dry plain,
which separates our village from that of Noiesemont, and which is all
covered with mill-stones just taken from the quarry. The process of
blowing the rocks was still going on. Suddenly a violent explosion was
heard. I looked. At a distance of four or five hundred paces, a gray
smoke, which seemed to come from a hole, rose from the ground. Stones
were then thrown up in the air, horrible cries were heard, and springing
from this hole appeared a man, who began to run across the plain as if
mad. He shook his arms, screamed, fell down, got up again, disappeared
in the great crevices of the plain, and appeared again. The distance and
the irregularity of his path prevented me from distinguishing anything
clearly; but, at the height of his head, in the place of his face, I saw
a great, red mark. In alarm, I approached him, while from the other side
of the plain, from Noiesemont, a troop of men and women were advancing,
crying aloud. I was the first to reach the poor creature. His face was
all one wound, and torrents of blood were streaming over his garments,
which were all in rags.
“Scarcely had I taken hold of him, when a woman, followed by twenty
peasants, approached, and threw herself before him.
“'James, James, is it you? I did not know you, James.'
“The poor man, without answering, struggled furiously in our hands.
“'Ah!' cried the woman, suddenly, and with a heart-rending voice, 'it is
he!'
“She had recognised a large silver pin, which fastened his shirt, which
was covered with blood.
“It was indeed he, her husband, the father of three children, a
poor labourer, who, in blasting a rock with powder, had received the
explosion in his face, and was blind, mutilated, perhaps mortally
wounded.
“He was carried home. I was obliged to go away the same day, on a
journey, and was absent a month. Before my departure, I sent him our
doctor, a man devoted to his profession as a country physician, and as
learned as a city physician. On my return--
“'Ah! well, doctor,' said I, 'the blind man?'
“'It is all over with him. His wounds are healed, his head is doing
well, he is only blind; but he will die; despair has seized him, and he
will kill himself. I can do nothing more for him, This is all,' he said;
'an internal inflammation is taking place. He must die.'
“I hastened to the poor man. I arrived. I shall never forget the sight.
He was seated on a wooden stool, beside a hearth on which there was no
fire, his eyes covered with a white bandage. On the floor an infant of
three months was sleeping; a little girl of four years old was playing
in the ashes; one, still older, was shivering opposite to her; and, in
front of the fireplace, seated on the disordered bed, her arms hanging
down, was the wife. What was left to be imagined in this spectacle was
more than met the eye. One felt that for several hours, perhaps, no word
had been spoken in this room. The wife was doing nothing, and seemed
to have no care to do anything. They were not merely unfortunate, they
seemed like condemned persons. At the sound of my footsteps they arose,
but without speaking.
“'You are the blind man of the quarry?”
“'Yes, sir.'
“'I have come to see you.'
“'Thank you, sir.'
“'You met with a sad misfortune there.'
“'Yes, sir.'
“His voice was cold, short, without any emotion. He expected nothing
from any one. I pronounced the words 'assistance,' 'public compassion.'
“'Assistance!' cried his wife, suddenly, with a tone of despair; 'they
ought to give it to us; they must help us; we have done nothing to bring
upon us this misfortune; they will not let my children die with hunger.'
“She asked for nothing--begged for nothing. She claimed help. This
imperative beggary touched me more than the common lamentations of
poverty, for it was the voice of despair; and I felt in my purse for
some pieces of silver.
“The man then, who had till now been silent, said, with a hollow tone,
“'Your children must die, since I can no longer see.'
“There is a strange power in the human voice. My money fell back into my
purse. I was ashamed of the precarious assistance. I felt that here was
a call for something more than mere almsgiving--the charity of a day. I
soon formed my resolution.”
“But what could you do?” said the young man, to Mr. Desgranges.
“What could I do?” replied he, with animation. “Fifteen days after,
James was saved. A year after, he gained his own living, and might be
heard singing at his work.”
“Saved! working! singing! but how?”
“How! by very natural means. But wait, I think I hear him. I will make
him tell you his simple story. It will touch you more from his lips. It
will embarrass me less, and his cordial and ardent face will complete
the work.”
In fact, the noise of some one taking off his wooden shoes was heard at
the door, and then a little tap.
“Come in, James;” and he entered with his wife,
“I have brought Juliana, my dear Mr. Desgranges, the poor woman--she
must see you sometimes, must she not?”
“You did right, James. Sit down.”
He came forward, pushing his stick before him, that he might not knock
against a chair. He found one, and seated himself. He was young, small,
vigorous, with black hair, a high and open forehead, a singularly
expansive face for a blind man, and, as Rabelais says, a magnificent
smile of thirty-two teeth. His wife remained standing behind him.
“James,” said Mr. Desgranges to him, “here is one of my good friends,
who is very desirous to see you.”
“He is a good man, then, since he is your friend.”
“Yes. Talk with him; I am going to see my geraniums. But do not be sad,
you know I forbid you that.”
“No, no, my dear friend, no!”
This tender and simple appellation seemed to charm the young man; and
after the departure of his friend, approaching the blind man, he said,
“You are very fond of Mr. Desgranges?”
“Fond of him!” cried the blind man, with impetuosity; “he saved me from
ruin, sir. It was all over with me; the thought of my children consumed
me; I was dying because I could not see. He saved me.”
“With assistance--with money?”
“Money! what is money? Everybody can give that. Yes, he clothed us, he
fed us, he obtained a subscription of five hundred francs (about one
hundred dollars) for me; but all this was as nothing; he did more--he
cured my heart!”
“But how?”
“By his kind words, sir. Yes, he, a person of so much consequence in the
world, he came every day into my poor house, he sat on my poor stool, he
talked with me an hour, two hours, till I became quiet and easy.”
“What did he say to you?”
“I do not know; I am but a foolish fellow, and he must tell you all he
said to me; but they were things I had never heard before. He spoke to
me of the good God better than a minister; and he brought sleep back to
me.”
“How was that?”
“It was two months since I had slept soundly. I would just doze, and
then start up, saying,
“'James, you are blind,' and then my head would go round--round, like
a madman; and this was killing me. One morning he came in, this dear
friend, and said to me,
“'James, do you believe in God?'
“'Why do you ask that, Mr. Desgranges?'
“'Well, this night, when you wake, and the thought of your misfortune
comes upon you, say aloud a prayer--then two--then three--and you will
go to sleep.'”
“Yes,” said the wife, with her calm voice, “the good God, He gives
sleep.”
“This is not all, sir. In my despair I would have killed myself. I said
to myself, 'You are useless to your family, you are the woman of the
house, and others support you.' But he was displeased--'Is it not you
who support your family? If you had not been blind, would any one have
given you the five hundred francs?'
“'That is true, Mr. Desgranges.'
“'If you were not blind, would any one provide for your children?'
“'That is true, Mr. Desgranges.'
“'If you were not blind, would every one love you, as we love you?'
“'It is true, Mr. Desgranges, it is true.'
“'You see, James, there are misfortunes in all families. Misfortune is
like rain; it must fall a little on everybody. If you were not blind,
your wife would, perhaps, be sick; one of your children might have
died. Instead of that, you have all the misfortune, my poor man; but
they--they have none.'
“'True, true.' And I began to feel less sad. I was even happy to suffer
for them. And then he added,
“'Dear James, misfortune is either the greatest enemy or the greatest
friend of men. There are people whom it makes wicked; there are others
made better by it. For you, it must make you beloved by everybody; you
must become so grateful, so affectionate, that when they wish to speak
of any one who is good, they will say, good as the blind man of the
Noiesemont. That will serve for a dowry to your daughter.' This is the
way he talked to me, sir: and it gave me heart to be unfortunate.”
“Yes; but when he was not here?”
“Ah, when he was not here, I had, to be sure, some heavy moments. I
thought of my eyes--the light is so beautiful! Oh, God! cried I, in
anguish, if ever I should see clearly again, I would get up at three
o'clock in the morning, and I would, not go to bed till ten at night,
that I might gather up more light.”
“James, James!” said his wife.
“You are right, Juliana; he has forbidden me to be sad. He would
perceive it, sir. Do you think that when my head had gone wrong in the
night, and he came in the morning, and merely looked at me, he would
say--'James, you have been thinking that;' and then he would scold me,
this dear friend. Yes,” added he, with an expression of joy--“he would
scold me, and that would give me pleasure, because he tried to make his
words cross, but he could not do it.”
“And what gave you the idea of becoming a water-carrier?”
“He gave me that, also. Do you suppose I have ideas? I began to lose my
grief, but my time hung heavy on my hands. At thirty-two years old, to
be sitting all day in a chair! He then began to instruct me, as he said,
and he told me beautiful stories. The Bible--the history of an old
man, blind like me, named Tobias; the history of Joseph; the history
of David; the history of Jesus Christ. And then he made me repeat them
after him. But my head, it was hard--it was hard; it was not used to
learning, and I was always getting tired in my arms and my legs.”
“And he tormented us to death,” said his wife, laughing.
“True, true,” replied he, laughing also; “I became cross. He came again,
and said,
“'James, you must go to work.'
“I showed him my poor, burned hands.
“'It is no matter; I have bought you a capital in trade.'
“'Me, Mr. Desgranges?'
“'Yes, James, a capital into which they never put goods, and where they
always find them.'
“'It must have cost you a great deal, sir.'
“'Nothing at all, my lad.'
“'What is then this fund?'
“'The river.'
“'The river? Do you wish me to become a fisherman?'
“'Not all; a water-carrier.'
“'Water-carrier! but eyes?'
“'Eyes; of what use are they? do the dray-horses have eyes? If they do,
they make use of them; if they do not, they do without them. Come, you
must be a water-carrier.'
“'But a cask?'
“'I will give you one.'
“'A cart?'
“'I have ordered one at the cart-maker's.'
“'But customers?'
“I will give you my custom, to begin with, eighteen francs a month; (my
dear friend pays for water as dearly as for wine.) Moreover, you have
nothing to say, either yes or no. I have dismissed my water-carrier,
and you would not let my wife and me die with thirst. This dear Madame
Desgranges, just think of it. And so, my boy, in three days--work. And
you, Madam James, come here;' and he carried off Juliana.”
“Yes, sir,” continued the wife, “he carried me off, ordered leather
straps, made me buy the wheels, harnessed me; we were all astonishment,
James and I; but stop, if you can, when Mr. Desgranges drives you.
At the end of three days, here we are with the cask, he harnessed and
drawing it, I behind, pushing; we were ashamed at crossing the village,
as if we were doing something wrong; it seemed as if everybody would
laugh at us. But Mr. Desgranges was there in the street.
“'Come on, James,' said he, 'courage.'
“We came along, and in the evening he put into our hands a piece of
money, saying,” continued the blind man, with emotion--
“'James, here are twenty sous you have earned to-day.'
“Earned, sir, think of that! earned, it was fifteen months that I had
only eaten what had been given to me. It is good to receive from good
people, it is true; but the bread that one earns, it is as we say, half
corn, half barley; it nourishes better, and then it was done, I was
no longer the woman, I was a labourer--a labourer--James earned his
living.”
A sort of pride shone from his face.
“How!” said the young man, “was your cask sufficient to support you?”
“Not alone, sir; but I have still another profession.”
“Another profession!”
“Ha, ha, yes, sir; the river always runs, except when it is frozen, and,
as Mr. Desgranges says, 'water-carriers do not make their fortune with
ice,' so he gave me a Winter trade and Summer trade.”
“Winter trade!”
Mr. Desgranges returned at this moment--James heard him--“Is it
not true, Mr. Desgranges, that I have another trade besides that of
water-carrier?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“What is it then?”
“Wood-sawyer.”
“Wood-sawyer? impossible; how could you measure the length of the
sticks? how could you cut wood without cutting yourself?”
“Cut myself, sir,” replied the blind man, with a pleasant shade of
confidence; “I formerly was a woodsawyer, and the saw knows me well; and
then one learns everything--I go to school, indeed. They put a pile of
wood at my left side, my saw and saw horse before me, a stick that is
to be sawed in three; I take a thread, I cut it the size of the third of
the stick--this is the measure. Every place I saw, I try it, and so it
goes on till now there is nothing burned or drunk in the village without
calling upon me.”
“Without mentioning,” added Mr. Desgranges, “that he is a commissioner.”
“A commissioner!” said the young man, still more surprised.
“Yes, sir, when there is an errand to be done at Melun, I put my little
girl on my back, and then off I go. She sees for me, I walk for her;
those who meet me, say, 'Here is a gentleman who carries his eyes very
high;' to which I answer, 'that is so I may see the farther.' And then
at night I have twenty sous more to bring home.”
“But are you not afraid of stumbling against the stones?”
“I lift my feet pretty high; and then I am used to it; I come from
Noiesemont here all alone.”
“All alone! how do you find your way?”
“I find the course of the wind as I leave home, and this takes the place
of the sun with me.”
“But the holes?”
“I know them all.”
“And the walls?”
“I feel them. When I approach anything thick, sir, the air comes with
less force upon my face; it is but now and then that I get a hard knock,
as by example, if sometimes a little handcart is left on the road, I do
not suspect it--whack! bad for you, poor five-and-thirty, but this
is soon over. It is only when I get bewildered, as I did day before
yesterday. O then---”
“You have not told me of that, James,” said Mr. Desgranges.
“I was, however, somewhat embarrassed, my dear friend. While I was here
the wind changed, I did not perceive it; but at the end of a quarter of
an hour, when I had reached the plain of Noiesemont, I had lost my way,
and I felt so bewildered that I did not dare to stir a step. You know
the plain, not a house, no passersby. I sat down on the ground, I
listened; after a moment I heard at, as I supposed, about two hundred
paces distant, a noise of running water. I said, 'If this should be the
stream which is at the bottom of the plain?' I went feeling along on the
side from which the noise came--I reached the stream; then I reasoned in
this way: the water comes down from the side of Noiesemont and crosses
it. I put in my hand to feel the current.”
“Bravo, James.”
“Yes, but the water was so low and the current so small, that my hand
felt nothing. I put in the end of my stick, it was not moved. I rubbed
my head finally, I said, 'I am a fool, here is my handkerchief;' I
took it, I fastened it to the end of my cane. Soon I felt that it moved
gently to the right, very gently. Noiesemont is on the right. I started
again and I get home to Juliana, who began to be uneasy.”
“O,” cried the young man, “this is admir----”
But Mr. Desgranges stopped him, and leading him to the other end of the
room,
“Silence!” said he to him in a low voice. “Not admirable--do not corrupt
by pride the simplicity of this man. Look at him, see how tranquil his
face is, how calm after this recital which has moved you so much. He is
ignorant of himself, do not spoil him.”
“It is so touching,” said the young man, in a low tone.
“Undoubtedly, and still his superiority does not lie there. A thousand
blind men have found out these ingenious resources, a thousand will find
them again; but this moral perfection--this heart, which opens itself
so readily to elevated consolations--this heart which so willingly takes
upon it the part of a victim--this heart which has restored him to
life. For do not be deceived, it is not I who have saved him, it is his
affection for me; his ardent gratitude has filled his whole soul, and
has sustained--he has lived because he has loved!”
At that moment, James, who had remained at the other end of the room,
and who perceived that we were speaking low, got up softly, and with a
delicate discretion, said to his wife,
“We will go away without making any noise.”
“Are you going, James?”
“I am in the way, my dear Mr. Desgranges.”
“No, pray stay longer.”
His benefactor retained him, reaching out to him cordially his hand. The
blind man seized the hand in his turn, and pressed it warmly against his
heart.
“My dear friend, my dear good friend, you permit me to stay a little
longer. How glad I am to find myself near you. When I am sad I
say--'James, the good God will, perhaps, of His mercy, put you in the
same paradise with Mr. Desgranges,' and that does me good.”
The young man smiled at this simple tenderness, which believed in a
hierarchy in Heaven. James heard him.
“You smile, sir. But this good man has re-created James. I dream of it
every night--I have never seen him, but I shall know him then. Oh my
God, if I recover my sight I will look at him for ever--for ever, like
the light, till he shall say to me, James, go away. But he will not
say so, he is too good. If I had known him four years ago, I would have
served him, and never have left him.”
“James, James!” said Mr. Desgranges; but the poor man could not be
silenced.
“It is enough to know he is in the village; this makes my heart easy. I
do not always wish to come in, but I pass before his house, it is always
there; and when he is gone a journey I make Juliana lead me into the
plain of Noiesemont, and I say--'turn me towards the place where he is
gone, that I may breathe the same air with him.'”
Mr. Desgranges put his hand before his mouth. James stopped.
“You are right, Mr. Desgranges, my mouth is rude, it is only my heart
which is right. Come, wife,” said he, gayly, and drying his great tears
which rolled from his eyes, “Come, we must give our children their
supper. Good-by, my dear friend, good-by, sir.”
He went away, moving his staff before him. Just as he laid his hand upon
the door, Mr. Desgranges called him back.
“I want to tell you a piece of news which will give you pleasure. I was
going to leave the village this year; but I have just taken a new lease
of five years of my landlady.”
“Do you see, Juliana,” said James to his wife, turning round, “I was
right when I said he was going away.”
“How,” replied Mr. Desgranges, “I had told them not to tell you of it.”
“Yes; but here,” putting his hand on his heart, “everything is plain
here. I heard about a month since, some little words, which had begun to
make my head turn round; when, last Sunday, your landlady called me to
her, and showed me more kindness than usual, promising me that she would
take care of me, and that she would never abandon me. When I came home,
I said to Juliana, 'Wife, Mr. Desgranges is going to quit the village;
but that lady has consoled me.'”
In a few moments the blind man had returned to his home.